


Stages of Touch: Desire

by autoschediastic



Series: Stages of Touch [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: Jaskier chases his most current heart's desire. Geralt would like a beer and a nap. One of them gets what he wants, the other gets a kick in the ass.Jaskier makes an unhappy noise as Geralt pulls away, levers up out of the pool. He stands with his arms crossed, his frown equal parts playful and genuine. “Can I interest you in a little tit for tat? I scrubbed your backandgot you off.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Stages of Touch [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670053
Comments: 33
Kudos: 675





	Stages of Touch: Desire

**Author's Note:**

> [katherine_tag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag) is a trooper for beta'ing all three parts of this monster while waiting patiently for me to return the favour. 
> 
> This is a mix of Netflix, game, and book canon cherry-picked for my own enjoyment. This follows Stages of Touch: Discovery, which was the not-friends part of my not-friends to fuckbuddies to lovers self-indulgent feels fest. 
> 
> Below please find the fuckbuddies with a hint of lovers.

*

Five weeks they’ve travelled together, he and this foolish bard, and Geralt fears he’ll never know peace again.

At least after so many solitary years the company's been novel. Precious little is anymore. 

In the end it was easier to let Jaskier tag along where Geralt could keep an eye on him rather than stumble into the middle of a hunt and get them both killed. Since then the money Geralt normally spends on tavern meals and inn rooms has more than tripled, his travel time from one settlement to the next has almost doubled, and where once he’d show his face, determine if there were contracts or not, and depart again in short order, now he loiters about for two nights if not more.

He hadn’t been pleased about any of it and didn't spare Jaskier knowing he was far more trouble than he was worth.

But as the days became weeks he began to hold his tongue. If Jaskier thinks the endless complaints about sleeping on rocks or stringy tasteless meat is why, so be it. Jaskier will never hear him utter the unfortunate truth that the bard is right: There are benefits to his company.

With Jaskier's earnings from performances there’s more to spend on hearty food and warm beds. Where once he’d been as loathe to stay overnight as a village would be to host him, Jaskier’s easy smiles and charmed tongue smooth the way. And though it costs more to linger when there’s no immediate work to be found, word that a witcher is passing through spreads quickly enough a job comes to him more often than not, and with it more pay. 

Already Geralt can feel the changes this new pattern makes. Better food eaten more often thickens his muscles and eases worn joints. Fewer nights passed half-wakeful and alert to threats have sharpened his senses, improved his reflexes. Extra funds means more to spend on fixing his gear, on buying herbs instead of foraging, which in turn leads to less injury, faster healing. 

What he considered as inevitable consequences have receded like the tide. Coming through the last of his Trials feel only years ago, not decades. To walk the Path is his purpose. To thrive on it is more than he deserves. 

He’s oddly comforted that it comes with a price.

Jaskier is noise incarnate. He fills the air with talk, singsong rambling, fragments of ballads and near-constant plucking at his lute. He tromps along jingling and jangling in his frippery, rustling silks and cottons and the creaking of new leather boots. He hums and sighs, smacks his lips and clicks his tongue, for some reason compelled to make a sound for every thought that flitters through his head. Even in sleep he snuffles and snorts. In a bed or on the ground he tosses and turns, at times his pulse rabbit-quick and breaths stuttering, at others his breathing deep, heavy, broken by soft nonsense utterings. A small army could slip unnoticed through the racket that hangs around Jaskier like a cloud of dust. 

“Quiet,” Geralt snaps for the third time in an hour. Evening is close and the stretch of road they're travelling is far too exposed for a decent campsite. Nestled in the wood beyond the meadow is a small brook that if he remembers right feeds into a well-concealed pool. Nose to the wind and ears pricked, he hopes to find it before the urge to drown Jaskier peaks. 

Jaskier steps directly on the dried branch Geralt had carefully led Roach over. The crunch is loud in the still air but not nearly as loud as Jaskier, who yelps and stumbles and soundly curses the thing as if it had tried to trip him. 

“I should've left you in Coppertown,” Geralt growls. 

“What a _horrible_ thing to say. The food was terrible.”

The food was exactly what would get a man through hours of backbreaking labour. Following an unexpected encounter with an ekimmara warrior somehow separated from its colony and all the more vicious for it, Geralt appreciated every bland bite. “I said be quiet, bard.”

“Are we close? I’m so filthy I’d wash in a rain barrel. Remember the hot springs after the hideous lizard bird?” Jaskier sighs fondly. “That was lovely. So rejuvenating.”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

Jaskier's mouth closes with a click of teeth. “You could use a bit of rejuvenation,” he mutters under his breath. 

After that he remains quiet--or not actively making noise--so Geralt lets it pass. Given the bard’s memory for song and rhyme Geralt doubts he’s forgotten a single thing he’s managed to glean about witchers. Jaskier knows his hearing is sharp enough to find a field mouse at harvest time, so he isn't fool enough to think Geralt misses a single one of his weak insults. 

Which leads to the baffling conclusion that Jaskier doesn’t give a shit. Alone with a mutant of vicious reputation who could kill him with one hand, miles from help or sanctuary, and not only does he not care, he goes out of his way to provoke Geralt’s ire. 

It’s fascinating in the same way a travelling companion is novel, and some might say proof Jaskier is an absolute idiot--an opinion Geralt shared far longer than he'd like to admit. Jaskier is flighty, fool-hardy, and prone to impulse, but no one stupid could deliberately make it so easy to be overlooked, underestimated, and dismissed in any situation. As a survival tactic for a travelling bard it's simple and smart. 

“It was a cockatrice,” Geralt says as the scent of fresh water grows stronger. He's as eager as Jaskier to finally soak off the suffocating layers of sweat-caked dirt.

“Hideous lizard bird is far more descriptive _and_ evocative.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. He isn’t wrong. It only leaves out the staggering stench of the thing. 

“Its stink haunted me for days. Of course that could’ve been you, you did get-- Oh! Finally!” Heedless of any number of threats to be found at a watering hole, Jaskier charges ahead through the trees. He groans theatrically loud. “Melitele bless our loins, what a magnificently sweet sight that is.”

Geralt frowns, following at a more cautious pace. On more than one occasion Jaskier praised his ass with those exact same words in that exact same tone, a fact he's not so sure he appreciates. 

By the time he joins Jaskier at the pool, Roach settled in the grass and a fire pit ready for when the sun sets, anything hungry enough would’ve already taken the bard. He keeps an eye out for his own sake as he strips down, swords laid within easy reach. 

“Hurry up, Geralt,” Jaskier calls, floating on his back with his face to the sky. “It’s glorious.”

Once again Geralt is forced to silently agree as he slips off the raised bank into the water. Fed by a wide shallow tumble the pool is a fair size, not quite a pond but deep enough it reaches his chest. He sinks down until it laps at his chin, eyes slipping shut in bliss. The water's cool, soothing embrace is well worth ignoring the hunger in his belly for a little longer. The dirt needs time to loosen if he's going to have any skin left after scrubbing it off anyway. 

As the sunset filtering through the trees turns to grey shadows, Jaskier splashes his way over. He tilts his head curiously at the handful of fine sand Geralt is using to scrape four days of filth from his skin. “Where did you get that?”

Geralt jerks his chin at the rocky overhang to his left and the sand piled under it. 

“Isn’t this a strange place to find sand?” Jaskier asks, watching a moment more before scooping some up. He squints at it dubiously, glances again at Geralt, then gives a shrug and mimics the tight circling pattern along his arm. “The coast is weeks away.”

Sand where there’s no tide is one of the least strange things on the Continent. Geralt shrugs. 

“It does feel nice though.” Jaskier rinses off, sizing up the results with the same care Geralt shows to choosing horses. “That is a very handy bit of knowledge. I know courtiers who would commit treason for skin this soft. Here, you do my back and I’ll do yours.”

Geralt is perfectly capable of scrubbing his own back. Still, he turns to offer it as Jaskier wades over.

One of the least unfortunate things about Jaskier is the deftness of his hands. His massages are more skillful than most, and he quickly figures out how to work away tension and travel dirt both with the sand. He makes his way down Geralt’s back, up again along his ribs with constant, even pressure. When he starts going over places already cleaned, Geralt doesn’t stop him. 

That small concession is enough to make Jaskier bold. He splashes cool water over Geralt’s back and follows it with the heat of his mouth. The answering spark in mutated blood is by now familiar, for the odd time that Jaskier doesn’t take advantage of an opportunity--whether it goes anywhere or not has no bearing on the next attempt--Geralt's surprised to find he's the one who pushes for it.

Which isn't to say they're fucking like rabbits since life on the road doesn't come with many such opportunities. Days can easily go by without even a heated glance. But when the urge strikes it's convenient to have a willing partner readily available. 

Jaskier's hand slides down Geralt's stomach, fingers curling brazenly through the hair at the base of his cock. Wry, Geralt asks, “What happened to my back?”

“All clean." Jaskier presses in close and slips his other arm loosely around Geralt’s waist. The touch of so much bare skin brings the magic to full wakefulness; it stretches languidly through Geralt’s muscles like something alive, like it recognizes the body against his. 

A shameless groan lets Geralt know the moment it touches Jaskier. Not for the first time he wonders how deep it goes, if Jaskier can feel it thrumming in his bones too. No one else ever has, but no one else has woken it for more than a night either. And it's never been this strong.

The contrast of cool water and the heat spreading out from Jaskier’s palm makes Geralt shiver--prickling gooseflesh, something else rarely felt. Then more heat as Jaskier cups a hand under his balls, hefts them as if testing their weight though he's done the same before for no other reason than he just seems to like it. Idly, he thumbs at soft skin. “I want to suck your cock later.”

“Later,” Geralt says doubtfully, grasping at Jaskier’s wrist under the water when he takes firm hold of his cock, strokes slowly from root to tip. 

“Soon,” Jaskier amends. His fingers are merciless as he circles the crown, the water slippery but not nearly enough to make the slide easy. “I want to taste you when I do, not old leather and piss.”

Geralt catches a groan low in his throat. He’ll grant that Jaskier is an attentive lover for the most part, and when he isn’t it’s his eagerness to have Geralt in every way possible at the same time that gets the better of him. For now he seems content with slow and lazy pleasure that still cuts deep into Geralt's gut--there's more thrill in familiar, knowing touches than he would've guessed. 

“Old leather and piss is me,” Geralt says. He lets Jaskier take more of his weight, rumbling appreciatively when he remains steady. Foppish clothes and indulgent habits often mask how Jaskier is lean and strong with youth and the rigours of travel.

Jaskier laughs in the middle of licking water from Geralt’s neck. “I guess it is.”

Held and pleasured like this there's more time to think than usual, more time to notice how rare it is to _be_ held. Whores either cuddle into his side or pillow their heads on his chest and he has no complaints; he’s paying for the comfort of another’s touch as much as sexual release. That it comes with certain expectations doesn’t bother him; that Jaskier's company is free of them isn't so remarkable. It's different, even nice, but nothing special outside the exchange of coin for service. 

“Do you know,” Jaskier says conversationally, shifting to settle his cock in the crack of Geralt's ass, slowly rock his hips, “sometimes I like how you smell all dirty. That dark, musky scent under fresh sun-kissed sweat, a little herby and sharp.” 

Long, firm pulls on Geralt's cock turn purposeful, push him harder into Jaskier's slow rutting. The pantomime of fucking makes his belly quiver.

“And then when you smell like sex on top of that, _oh_. I think you do it deliberately. A bit of sloppy clean up so you can pretend you don’t love the smell of me all over you. Like you don't get hard at the tight pull of dried come on your skin."

Geralt reaches up to grab onto Jaskier’s hair, his chest rising and falling faster as Jaskier bites at the slope of his neck and shoulder until it aches. Disturbed silt drifts over his toes as he thrusts into Jaskier’s grip, friction from the water clashing with the low sweet thrum of magics. His balls draw tight and heavy and he squeezes Jaskier’s wrist still caught in his other hand.

Somehow Jaskier keeps the pace under his control, lingering too long on the edge of almost there, so close it hurts. Geralt growls a curse, threatens to break Jaskier’s wrist, and Jaskier laughs. _Laughs_ , low and rough, delighted. Sudden pleasure twists through pent-up energies barely held in check and he comes in a long, dizzying rush that blacks out everything that isn't Jaskier's tight grip working his balls dry. 

When the world starts filtering in again the only thing holding him up is Jaskier braced against the bank behind them. Immediately he takes stock of their surroundings, relieved to find nothing's changed in the clearing aside from the human-like racing of his heart. Eventually that too goes back to normal as the magic recedes. If he were fanciful like Jaskier he’d call it sated. 

“You're marvellous,” Jaskier says, nuzzling into the hair at Geralt’s nape, pretending he can’t feel Geralt go tense and alert in his arms. “I can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

With the sun sunk below the horizon the day’s heat will quickly fade; they need to be dry and dressed before the water’s cool relief turns to a chill. He needs to light the fire to help with that and eat quickly, rest while Jaskier is still alert. Once the bard falls asleep he can’t risk more than a light meditation. 

Jaskier makes an unhappy noise as Geralt pulls away, levers up out of the pool. He stands with his arms crossed, his frown equal parts playful and genuine. “Can I interest you in a little tit for tat? I scrubbed your back _and_ got you off.”

Geralt slicks most of the water clinging to him off with the flats of his hands, then pats the rest of it away with his shirt. The fire will take care of the lingering damp. “That was your choice.”

“I heard no complaints.”

Shrugging, Geralt ignites the fire with a gesture and shakes out his dirty clothes, draping them over a bush to air out. Depending on what happens between here and the small waystation at Knotgrass Meadow he’ll have to take the time to wash and dry them; airing out won’t do much for the set he dug out earlier. 

A grumble and splash lets him know Jaskier’s gone back to cleaning up. He sits down on his bedroll, one arm slung over a raised knee, and starts in on a few handfuls of dried fruits, jerky, and nuts. If Jaskier isn’t out of the pool by the time he’s done eating, he’ll haul him out.

He’s down to a few bites when Jaskier climbs out of the water. He finishes the rest while getting dressed. 

“Eat,” he tells Jaskier, taking in the shine of firelight on wet skin with a quick glance, “and let the fire warm you before you dress. Don’t fall asleep without telling me.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier grumbles. “I know. Go--" he flaps a hand "--meditate or whatever.”

Geralt turns his back to the fire for the sake of his night vision, and to hide a smile. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t take his fun in Jaskier's cranky fussing. Or justify it by noting that Jaskier has two very competent hands of his own if he cares to use them. 

He didn't; Geralt was listening.

Much later when night has fully set in and Jaskier is asleep, something pulls him out of his meditation with a jolt. He shifts his eyes to see better in the darkness, quickly filters out the sound of his heartbeat and his breath along with all the tiny inconsequential noises of a forest at night.

Naturally, the source is Jaskier and the stilted, distressed noises of a nightmare. He mulls over the consequences of waking the bard. Nightmares aren't life-threatening and there's nothing in these woods to be drawn in by one.

He still hasn't decided when Jaskier moans quietly, a little broken by soft huffs of breath. His stomach swoops like he's falling at the plea in it he's sure he recognizes. 

He shifts his eyes again, pupils narrowed to size Jaskier up in the ember's glow. Jaskier's face is soft with sleep, his body loose and calm. The smell of arousal carried on the warmth that seeps from underneath his blankets is unmistakable. 

That's more reason to wake him. Fucking a man doesn't give license to invading the privacy of his dreams. 

Geralt closes his eyes and turns away, accepting the hot-blooded shame that pulls his skin tight. Listening closely, he waits for Jaskier to quiet on his own.

*

Jaskier worries the incident at the pool has set an unfair precedent. Over the last few weeks Geralt doesn’t once initiate a spot of fun and frolic, and he was the one who started all of this to begin with! 

Jaskier took readily enough to the witcher’s blunt habits in asking for what he wants, but less and less it’s Geralt who does the asking. Which isn’t even the worst of it. Oh no. If Jaskier leaves it up to _him_ , the theme becomes one and done. It’s the very height of rudeness not to see your partner to completion, as Jaskier pointed out on more than one occasion. 

Geralt shrugged. _Shrugged._ As if his entirely false reputation as an unfeeling mutant were an excuse for his laziness.

“I suppose you’re right,” Jaskier says one evening only a few hours ride out from whatever little hamlet is next on Geralt’s mental list. “As pleasurable as a familiar touch is, variety is the spice of life. Man cannot survive on man alone.”

Geralt looks at him askance. He’s been walking Roach since their mad dash through a swamp several miles back. Her horsey brain might’ve understood the need to carry them swiftly past danger but that didn’t mean she appreciated the weight of an extra rider. 

When they have the funds a calm, even-tempered gelding for Jaskier sounds nice. Definitely not a flighty or headstrong stallion, and truth be told he suspects Roach wouldn’t take well to another mare joining the herd. She hasn’t tried to kick him for almost a month now. He’d like to stay on her good side.

“What are you talking about now?” Geralt asks.

“Company, my friend! Company of a fairer persuasion.” Jaskier spreads his arms wide to the sky. “You know, the warm and welcoming kind that smells as soft and wonderful as they feel. I realize you’ve been on the road a long time, Geralt, but surely you haven’t forgotten there’s more to be found between the sheets than cock.”

“Hm,” says Geralt.

The more he thinks on it, the more the idea of a lovely lady or three inviting him to their bed appeals. Geralt is incredibly sexy and quite talented when he bothers to try but there’s not much softness to him. Not even his deliciously rounded bottom. 

“Yes,” Jaskier goes on, “that’s exactly what we’ll do. Where did you say we’re headed? No doubt there’ll be women aplenty for us both, fine specimens that we are.”

There are indeed plenty of women in Hengfors, a few quite comely. Even better the majority of them are friendly and fun, which under normal circumstances would make for a thoroughly enjoyable evening. 

Alas, such bounty is difficult to enjoy when it isn’t offered as freely to one’s friends.

He can’t even blame Geralt for this unfortunate turn of events. The witcher is as relaxed and pleasant as he ever is amongst a crowd, which is to say not very, but he’s far less dark and brooding than usual. Graced with the smallest of occasional smiles, he’s much more the strong and silent type irresistible to a certain type of lover. But when Jaskier drifts from his side so too do the ladies. It breaks Jaskier’s heart.

“I owe it to my dearest friend,” he tells Edda, a plump blond with a truly mischievous grin when she asks about the freshly-healed scrape on his forearm. “This would’ve scarred so terribly I wouldn't be able to play a single note! You wouldn’t know it to look at him, as he’s of that stern well-muscled warrior stock, but he has the gentlest touch. Such big hands!” He sighs softly and curls his fingers. “Yet I hardly felt a thing.” 

“Surely because you’re so brave,” says Corliss, who’s rather plain aside from the deep timbre of her voice. 

“Brave?” Jaskier presses a hand to his chest. “You’re right, I can’t lie. It takes courage to walk the path I’ve chosen. Bravery, however, doesn’t make a man impervious to pain.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “With my sensitive soul I feel it far, far deeper than most. This small slice? Like a dagger stabbed through my arm!”

Corliss looks at it doubtfully. “It’s not that small.”

Jaskier catches her gaze, holds it intently. “Exactly.”

Edda gasps. “It didn’t hurt when he tended it? Not at all?”

“Truly. His care alone was salve enough. Look there.” He draws their attention to Geralt quietly thanking the serving girl as she drops off a fresh pitcher. “I’ve seen that man carry the wounded on each shoulder one day and the next watched a colic-stricken babe quiet in his arms.”

It hardly mattered that it was an unconscious dwarf and bleating nanny goat he carried to safety, or that it was just as likely the child fell silent out of pure terror upon finding itself tear-wet face to perturbed face with Geralt. Every word is truth. 

Feeling their eyes upon him, Geralt glances up. Jaskier nods quickly at Corliss. When Geralt just stares, he widens his eyes, exaggeratedly drags his gaze from Geralt to her a few times over.

Edda and Corliss share a look, then turn to Jaskier. “He looks very strong,” Corliss says, a small uptick in her voice at the end.

“The song you were writing when you were attacked,” Edda pipes in. “Did you get to finish it? Could we have a listen, d’you think?”

Jaskier sighs.

The next time he looks Geralt is gone. Whisked away by a charming lass, he hopes.

A not entirely vain hope he's delighted to discover. They hadn’t arranged on a place to meet in the morning, so Jaskier returns to the stable where Roach overnighted to find Geralt busy cleaning his tack while she eats. Jaskier sizes him up critically from the doorway. He never really has the look of a man well-fucked and sadly any tell-tale marks would be gone by now unless someone literally sank their teeth into him. 

Jaskier should know; he's tried. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says by way of good morning.

“Are you as exhausted as I am?” Jaskier saunters up to lean against a wooden beam. “Probably not, I know. I’m only jealous of your stamina when I don’t benefit from it.”

Geralt quietly huffs.

“Oh come on, don’t make me beg. You disappeared on me last night! Where to?”

“Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“I want _details_ , Geralt. Tell me, did you leave only one satisfied beauty behind?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Or did you spread your blessings around?”

Geralt stops. He rests his elbow on the polished saddle in his lap; Jaskier leans forward eagerly. “One.”

“Was--”

“All I could afford.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s mouth twists. That’s more disappointing than if he’d gone without. He knows Geralt prefers brothels for a host of reasons, many of which are entirely sensible. Somehow that doesn’t change the sudden sour cast to the day. 

The last thing he wants is to make it more than it is though, so he says, “Well?” and waves a hand. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess? Shapely? Ooh, I know! You’ve had me for weeks now, you wouldn’t have chosen someone lean. I bet she was a plush goddess of fertility from legends old.”

While Jaskier spoke, Geralt stood, gear set aside to begin Roach’s grooming. “It wouldn’t matter how fertile she was.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines. 

“What.”

Jaskier crosses his arms. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Geralt was crankier for having spent a night with a beautiful woman. He tries to remember the last time Geralt visited a brothel and finds he can’t. Which isn’t exactly surprising given it’s more convenient and not to mention cheaper to take their pleasure in each other, but he's surprised all the same. Geralt wouldn’t be so shallow as to _resent_ being left to fend for himself--it’s hardly the first time that’s happened. And it couldn’t be that he was annoyed at having to please a partner--it’s crass, but whores are left unsatisfied all the time. Could it be _Geralt_ was the one left wanting?

An hour outside Hengfors Jaskier puts a stop to his mind running around in circles. “Alright,” he says, marching in front of Geralt and planting his feet firmly. “What’s wrong?”

Scowling, Geralt leads Roach around him. He hops backwards and stands firm again. 

“I mean it. Tell me what’s wrong. Right now.”

Geralt growls.

“You’re upset. Are you angry with me?”

“No. Move.”

“Did you not enjoy yourself last night? Is it the, you know." He wriggles his fingers. "Did she not set you to a witchery buzzing?”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“I’m worried!”

“Leave it,” Geralt snarls.

Jaskier almost does, swayed by a strange sort of vulnerability in Geralt’s otherworldly eyes. “No. Tell me or I’ll--”

“You’ll what? Sing?”

Jaskier gapes. Geralt smirks. 

“You are an _ass_ ,” Jaskier declares. He turns on his heel, deliberately kicking up dust, and doesn’t care if Geralt follows or not. He vows then and there he isn’t going to so much as stand close to Geralt until he hauls his white-haired head out of his ass. 

This impasse lasts for twenty-two miserable days. In town it’s easier even when Jaskier is missing something in particular; a lot of men aren’t that picky about who sucks their cock, and though Jaskier has somewhat higher standards he doesn’t suffer for it. 

No more than he already suffers, that is. It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy his partners, as usually he has the good taste to pick those more interested in sharing pleasure than taking it. It definitely isn’t the lack of the apparently literal magic that sparks between them. At times he misses that bizarrely appealing sensation but mostly he’s glad to rediscover his staying power without it burning him up from the inside.

It isn’t even some sort of sentimental longing for Geralt as his first, though in the privacy of his own head he’ll freely admit he does miss that connection. For all Geralt’s gruffness and standoffish nature he can be good company. 

The nights are the most difficult. Whether they fooled around or not they would always settle down side by side with Jaskier cosy between the fire’s warmth and Geralt’s protective bulk. Geralt said nothing the first night after Hengfors when Jaskier set his bedroll on the opposite side of the fire, nor any one since. And if Geralt won’t say anything about it or even bring up Jaskier’s lack of restful sleep under the guise of some excuse like needing him to not stumble half-conscious into a nest of monsters Geralt would then have to slay for no pay, then he won’t either. 

So, fine. Jaskier misses him and it’s all his own goddamned fault. 

The only conclusion left to reach is that Geralt did in fact _not_ appreciate being pushed out of Jaskier’s bed. The key must be his lack of choice on the matter. 

Jaskier hadn’t really noticed that in the past when they visited civilization he tended to linger until it became clear that Geralt wasn’t going to put out before seeking his fun elsewhere. Oh, he flirted and stole a teasing kiss or two. But when Geralt touched his shoulder or grunted his name in that certain way, he happily followed. 

He complained for form, of course. Could this great scary witcher not bear to be without him for even a night? No, he didn’t mind it too much. Yes, sometimes it was troublesome, but what was he to do? He couldn’t condemn his closest friend to hours upon hours of tortured loneliness.

Becoming quickly adept at identifying who would praise such deeply-caring loyalty versus those who would sentence the witcher to said loneliness as rightfully deserved was an unexpected benefit. More than once he’d escaped lying with a truly ugly soul.

The ultimate problem Jaskier faces is not only has he let this go on too long, his nineteenth birthday is now only a few short months away. Long before this silly no-touching vow, he vowed to play the prestigious Adder and Jewels Winery in the beautiful city of Beauclair in the Duchy of Toussaint on that very day, and he doesn’t care who he has to bribe, blow, or threaten to make it happen.

He does hope it isn't the latter.

Regardless, in Geralt’s own peculiar way he promised to make sure their path led to the city of lovers in time for that fateful day. And despite what Geralt might say, it _was_ a promise--there were various grunts, curses, and exasperated utterances of Jaskier’s name, but not a single outright no. 

(In point of fact, Geralt promised a great many things that night half a year ago. As far as Jaskier is concerned he fulfilled his end of the resulting bargain to the absolute best of his ability, if not exactly to the letter. A witcher is hardly one to quibble semantics.)

It’s a fine mess he’s in. 

Day twenty-three brings blue skies filled with playful, fluffy clouds. Nearby is the happy chirping of small birds. A warm breeze rustles through the few trees dotting the fields on either side of the road and sets the wildflowers to swaying. It’s beautiful and idyllic and Jaskier can’t enjoy a single fucking moment of it. 

When they stop at midday Jaskier girds his loins. Geralt is a stubborn bastard but he’s committed to being the bigger man between them. He cleans up the remains of their cold lunch, brushes the grass from his clothing, and stands with his shadow falling just shy of Geralt’s lap. Sternly, he says, “We have to talk.”

Busy oiling a new repair in his armour Geralt hums absently, acting for all the world like he hadn’t actually noticed it’s been nearly _three weeks_ since they’ve done _anything_ other than eat, sleep, and travel. 

Well, Geralt might’ve taken out a ghoul’s nest and Jaskier played to a very enthusiastic audience just three nights ago, neither of which change the facts of the matter. The most important of such is that Geralt has the audacity to carry on as if he isn’t devastated by the continued absence of a steady supply of orgasms courtesy of one faithful bard. 

“I’m serious, Geralt. It isn’t funny anymore. You’ve proved your point.”

Sighing, Geralt sets down his armour. He looks lovely and wild sitting amongst the greenery, the wind tugging playfully at his hair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. He says, “What?” while peering up at Jaskier as if he has no idea what’s going on, like he really expects Jaskier to believe _that_. Jaskier is perfectly aware that Geralt knows that he knows Geralt is also perfectly aware of what’s going on here. 

“You know exactly what, witcher. And I’ve had enough of it.”

Geralt makes a pained sort of sound, his brow furrowing. 

“Ah ah ah!” Jaskier waves a finger in his face. “You’re not fooling anyone. I fully acknowledge my part in this farce and I see the folly of my ways.”

Dropping the oil cloth, Geralt rolls to his feet. He tilts his head and watches Jaskier intently. “Do you.”

Jaskier ignores the flush creeping up his neck. “I do. And don’t act as if you’re fully without blame. It takes two to argue, you know.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch. 

Jaskier clutches at his hair and lets out a strangled noise of frustration. “Work with me, Geralt, _please_. I’m trying to apologize. I hurt you and it doesn’t matter that you hurt me first. I should have said as much instead of punishing you. So I’m sorry.”

Geralt’s face does something complicated and inexplicable. "Sorry," he says. 

“Finally!” Jaskier bursts out, letting his arms drop. “I’m glad to hear it. Now.” He drops to his knees. Honestly, he hadn’t expected such a clear apology in return. Nothing short of his best efforts will do. 

Geralt just _looks_ at him. 

“Are you going to stay up there?” he asks, tugging on the laces of Geralt’s trousers. When Geralt doesn’t answer, he shrugs. Seems risky without something a bit more solid than him to grab onto as he’s gotten very, very good at this even if he has to say so himself--Geralt certainly hasn’t. 

No, no. This is not the time to be catty. 

He’s glad the words are out there. Considering how much stock Geralt puts in those, however, it was obviously a good idea to plan on further action. What better way to get across how contrite Jaskier truly is and to also demonstrate how terribly Geralt's been missed than an enthusiastic cocksucking?

“Now remember,” Jaskier says, freeing Geralt’s not-disinterested cock and briskly stroking it to fullness; apology or no he doesn’t have the patience right now for all the fancy tongue things that drive Geralt mad with lust. “Hair pulling is a fine bit of fun, but if you yank any out this time I’m going to bite you on purpose.”

Geralt sadly doesn’t huff one of his quiet laughs--too soon for jokes. But he doesn’t put a stop to anything so he can’t be _that_ upset.

Jaskier opens his mouth wide for Geralt's cock, relief bubbling in his chest when Geralt makes a noise like all the air is punched right out of him. Humming happily as the familiar tingling warmth of Geralt's strange mutation spreads through his mouth, Jaskier draws a deep, steadying breath in through his nose and adjusts his grip.

He’s thought his way very carefully through this over the past few days: Take it easy on the lead up and not let anything, not Geralt’s fingers tangled up desperately in his hair or the ache of his own untended arousal, distract from his goal. Any biting that might happen will be entirely deliberate. He hopes the witcher knows he doesn’t actually _blame_ Geralt for the last time he tried this.

With a quick upwards glance, Jaskier frees his mouth long enough to say, “Please accept my most sincere apology,” just in case. 

Tight, twisting nerves keep him too long in safe territory, though the sharp sounds spilling from Geralt as he sucks are hardly complaints. He’s _practiced_ , for mercy’s sake. He’s ready. By the time he’s done Geralt won’t be able to manage even a suggestion of a grunt.

Getting started is always the most difficult. There's nothing to be done for it except to _do_ it. 

Even so it takes a truly monumental amount of effort to commit, and then every ounce of self-control to maintain a steady pace, to keep the pressure consistent while carefully measuring his breaths. Tears prick at his eyes as Geralt's cock nudges against the back of his throat. He fights the urge to cough, swallowing convulsively as he's forced to ease back. He goes down again as soon as it passes and tries his best to slow his breaths. When Geralt's cockhead threatens to gag him he squeezes his eyes shut, feels tears wet against his hot face.

Above him Geralt utters a harsh curse and cups a hand to Jaskier’s cheek so gently his eyes fly open. He looks up to find Geralt staring at him with eyes gone heavy and dark, mouth slack with wonder. The whine that builds in Jaskier's chest makes his face flush even hotter and his eyes clench tight again, his free hand clutching at Geralt's open trousers. The small wet sounds of his own discomfort as he forces Geralt's cock into his throat coupled with the loud noise of air sucked desperately in through his nose make his gut churn with eager, blunt-edged shame.

He can't make out what Geralt says through it all but he catches the note of concern. He hopes Geralt understands the strangled sound he makes in response. His chest heaves and his heart is pounding frantically as finally, _finally_ he lodges Geralt's cock fully into his throat. With his nose pressed to Geralt's groin and his head swimming all he can think is practicing with his fingers could never prepare him for this.

How could he even attempt to imagine the blood pounding in his ears or how much harder it is to resist the urge to cough with Geralt's thick cock wedged into his throat? Nothing else could even hint at the thrill of it, the way he feels filthy and used though he _knows_ he's fully in control. 

The thought that Geralt is letting him be in control hits so hard he groans raggedly. Geralt's gasp in return sparks the heat eating at Jaskier to a roaring blaze. He's so hungry for it now nothing could stop his frantic, frustrated attempts to swallow. Afraid he'll swoon first he tries again and again. 

Above him, Geralt says, “ _Fuck_ ”, like he’s the one on his knees, shaky and reverent.

Gagging on Geralt's cock he manages to swallow only once before he's forced to drag it free. He shakes off Geralt's hand urging him to wait and goes back down as quickly as he can. It's easier this time, more like climbing a mountain rather than trying to move it, and he swallows twice in quick succession before the tug on his hair registers. 

He isn't going to stop _now_ , not when he's finally got the hang of it. Sweat prickles at his hairline and his cheeks are soaked from tears but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything other than the pulse of Geralt's blood-thick cock every time he swallows. 

Abruptly Geralt yanks him off by a fistful of hair. He gasps in shock, coughs and spits and rasps filthy curses. He _told_ Geralt not to--

"Jaskier," Geralt grates, and comes right in his face. 

Jaskier yelps and jerks back only to be hauled up short by Geralt’s hand still tangled in his hair. His eyes snap shut as come hits his cheek, streaks across his nose and definitely gets caught in his eyelashes. More gets him square in the mouth, hot on his lips and dripping thickly onto his tongue. When Geralt's cock bumps his chin he ducks, tongue stuck out to catch it. He thrills as Geralt fucks shallowly into his mouth and the hot rush slows.

Cautiously, his mouth still full of cock and come, Jaskier cracks one eye open. Geralt has the most wonderful poleaxed look on his face. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Geralt grits out. 

Bursting with pride, Jaskier lets Geralt slip free. He coughs and spits, then beams up at Geralt more than ready to regale him with exactly how it’s managed--with plenty of emphasis on how it's much, much harder than he's sure he made it look--but before he can utter a single syllable Geralt drops to his knees, shoves Jaskier onto his back, and jams his hand down Jaskier’s trousers so hard the ties snap. 

Geralt doesn’t so much kiss him as lick at his face with a few detours into his mouth, but even if he could Jaskier wouldn’t complain. Geralt jerks his cock like his most fervent wish is for Jaskier to come right this instant and not a second later, and Jaskier is all too happy to oblige. He did exactly what he set out to do, focused so fully on Geralt’s pleasure that he hadn’t paid much attention to how incredibly, painfully stiff his prick is. He didn’t even notice the sizeable mess of precome sticky in his clothes. Now he notices all that and more, especially how dizzy he already is and how much messier everything gets when Geralt makes him come faster and harder than he has in weeks. He gives serious consideration to passing out in utter bliss.

But missing out on basking in the afterglow tangled up warm and sated with Geralt most certainly isn't part of the plan. He's not sure how long they lie there with their clothes in disarray, only that when he risks looking up at the sky it stays mercifully still. Content with Geralt's hand curled possessively around his softened cock, Jaskier sighs. It's really very nice to be wanted so.

“You’re a menace,” Geralt says, slumped halfway on top of him. “A fucking menace.”

Jaskier chokes on a violent burst of laughter. Oh it hurts, his throat is raw and aching worse than trying to breathe in the middle of a blizzard but he can’t stop, not even when Geralt tries to kiss him silent. He gasps an insincere apology and laughs harder. 

Disgruntled, Geralt rolls onto his back in the tall grass. When Jaskier curls against his side a few moments later, still giggling, he grudgingly lifts an arm to let him. He even gives a small, rueful snort of a laugh himself.

*

Toussaint is one of Geralt’s favourite places to travel. The verdant land rolls out beneath the mountains like a tapestry, with well-maintained roads that meander pleasantly. There’s an abundance of wildlife, berries, edible plants, all watched over by the frivolous yet dedicated knights errant. Unfortunately what makes the country so enjoyable is why Geralt rarely has reason to visit. 

As the mountain pass falls away and the Sansretour river tumbles down into the lush valley, the massive city of Beauclair rises sparkling and brightly coloured on the horizon. Jaskier’s chatter slows first, and then his steps, until he stands stock-still in the middle of the road with his mouth hanging open. 

Geralt leads Roach to the roadside for a moment’s rest. The pass had only offered tough weeds for her to graze on in addition to packed oats. She butts him with her head—either in thanks for the treat or more likely admonishment for taking so long to provide one—and swishes her tail, dismissing him. 

“We’re only stopping for a minute,” Geralt tells them. “The further we make it into the valley before nightfall the better our chances for a decent meal.”

He’s fairly certain they’re both ignoring him. That Roach carries on without so much as a snort in his direction isn’t the surprise Jaskier's silence is. Not that Jaskier hasn’t ignored him plenty over their months together. But when Jaskier ignores him it means talking over, around, and under him, wheedling out of whatever it is he's said without directly addressing it. As a skill it’s impressive. In practice it’s infuriating. 

“Jaskier.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, “oh, Geralt. It’s stunning.” His eyes are watery and threatening to overflow when he turns to Geralt. “Thank you so, so much for bringing me here. I can already hear it’s song.”

Geralt cocks his head to the side. The far-off sounds of farm work coupled with the faint noises of birds and deer going about their animal business could be a song to someone as prone to fancy as Jaskier.

“Time to go,” Geralt says, patting Roach’s bowed neck. Instead of continuing on ahead, however, Jaskier’s soft footsteps come closer. He glances up curiously at the fierce look on Jaskier's face a second or two before Jaskier bursts into a run and flings himself bodily at Geralt. 

“Truly,” Jaskier says thickly, his voice and arms around Geralt’s neck shaking with emotion. “Of all the debts I owe you nothing short of the rest of my life could ever repay you for this.”

Geralt frowns. He thought he'd grown used to Jaskier’s overly-friendly habits outside of fucking, all the casual touches along with the necessary ones when it comes to treating wounds and sharing beds and blankets for warmth. He pats Jaskier’s back. “You’re welcome.”

Jaskier gives a watery gasp. His hold tightens as he lifts his face, his breath trembling against Geralt’s lips before taking them in a frantic and bizarrely gentle kiss. He breaks it off before Geralt decides what to do about it. 

“I will make you the most beloved man in all the kingdoms,” Jaskier gravely vows. “For thousands of years even beyond the Continent peoples of all kinds will invoke the name Geralt of Rivia as a prayer for their safekeeping.”

Snorting, Geralt slips free of his hold. “For now I’ll take one less innkeep cursing it when our late arrival pulls them from their bed.”

“You’ll see,” Jaskier says, striding off with a hand clutching tightly to the strap of his lute’s case. “One day soon the White Wolf will be the guardian of all!”

Geralt shares a look with Roach as they fall into step behind him. Jaskier mutters over this phrase and that for a time, then takes out his lute to put them to melody. By nightfall he’s composed two songs, one a simple children’s rhyme and the other a rousing and uncomfortably hymn-like epic. After a plain supper he fiddles with the latter, brow wrinkled in concentration.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Geralt asks, his opinion obvious. 

“Maybe not.” Jaskier rubs at his mouth, thinking. “It needs a certain amount of solemnity, that’s a given. But longevity is important too, which is better suited to catchier rhythms. As much as I’d love to debut this in Beauclair I don’t want to rush it. I’d never forgive myself.”

Geralt takes his own advice and doesn't offer further comment. He lies down on his bedroll, anticipating about two hours of sleep before Jaskier gradually winds down. “Tell me--”

“When I’m done, yes, my darling,” Jaskier says, not looking up from the scraps of paper he scribbles on, "I know."

Another frown finds its way onto Geralt's face. He closes his eyes and ignores it the same as he ignores the mumble-rustle-scritch-scratch of Jaskier composing. 

Which is to say he doesn't ignore it much at all.

When they make their way into Beauclair several days later, Jaskier has only stopped talking long enough to chew. Not even in sleep did his mouth stop moving. Now, on the cobblestone streets heading toward his heart’s greatest desire--until it’s next greatest desire--he’s a flurry of motion. He dances from one sight to the next, oohing and aahing over everything from merchant's wares to flower-bedecked rooftops. More than once he calls for Geralt to come look, _just look, Geralt,_ and so Geralt goes, and looks, and doesn’t say that the way the sun reflects off the waters of a fanciful fountain is similar to how it reflects on his silver sword. 

All at once Jaskier’s contribution to the bustle about them falls silent. Geralt nudges Roach away from making a meal of a flower vendor’s livelihood and scans the crowd. Usually Jaskier’s colourful clothes are easy to spot. Less so when everyone else also dresses like a butterfly.

A wavery, “Geralt!” brings him to Jaskier, who hunches three doors down from the Adder and Jewelry Winery in the mouth of a shadowed alley.

“There it is,” Jaskier says, fingers combing frantically at his hair. He slaps at his clothes, tugs this and that, picks dirt from under his fingernails with a scowl. “Quick, brush off my back. Are there any grass stains? Mud? Please tell me I don't have mud on my ass.”

“You’re fine.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

Geralt lifts a brow.

“ _Geralt_.”

“Fine,” Geralt huffs. He gives Jaskier a cursory once-over, knocks the tiniest flake of mud from the back of his knee.

“Thank you,” Jaskier gushes, seizing Geralt's hand in a tight there-and-gone again grip. “Don’t wander off too far, this won’t take long.”

“I’m not--” Already Jaskier is out into the street, slipping nimbly past a cart and striding off with his head held high. “Dammit, Jaskier.” 

Geralt has no intentions of loitering in the street. Roach needs a rub down and stable for the night, and he needs a steady supply of ale to clear his head of Jaskier’s non-stop babbling. From the looks of this district, he won’t find either at a price that won’t set his teeth grinding. 

Jaskier probably won’t get a knife to the back in a district this well patrolled. He could leave the bard to his devices and head to the Lassommoir quarter as suggested by the guard at the gate. Though chances are slim he might find a bit of honest witcher's work to fill the time between now and Jaskier's performance. 

“Don’t,” he tells Roach as he settles down on the corner of a low rock wall barely holding back an explosion of blossoms. If Jaskier takes longer than fifteen minutes, they’re leaving. 

Jaskier returns in twenty. His head low, shoulders bowed, he trudges to the alleyway with all the joy of a man to the gallows. When he reaches Geralt he mutters, “Let’s go," and walks on.

Warily, Geralt stands and follows. He's seen things not go well for Jaskier a dozen times over, sometimes disastrously not well, and always Jaskier has bounced away with a smile. 

Without much care Jaskier goes where Geralt points him. Twice as they wind their way through the main thoroughfares he nearly loses Jaskier in the crowd. After he brings Roach to a halt for the third time to fish the bard out he curses and knots her reins to Jaskier's wrist. "Pay attention," he snaps.

Jaskier barely shrugs. 

Though the look of the streets doesn’t change much as they head into the working class area, the border is noticeable in the way folk become either quietly exhausted or raucously drunk. Eventually Geralt spots the fox sign of the Clever Clogs tavern.

“Go inside,” Geralt tells Jaskier, giving him a shove to get him moving in the right direction. “I’ll see to Roach first.”

Wordlessly, Jaskier shuffles away. Geralt watches, eyebrows drawn tight together, as he disappears into the small courtyard. 

“His ego will recover,” Geralt says to Roach after he’s paid for a stall half a block over that caters to the tavern’s guests. It has a selection of tools and brushes free to use much better than those in his pack so he takes advantage, tending to her hooves and checking her legs, treating her to a thorough grooming with tidying up the ragged ends of her mane and trimming her tail nicely to keep it from dragging in the mud. 

She bears the attention stoically and only steps on his foot once as he keeps her from a trough of sweet fresh hay. 

"Hey now," Geralt complains, but her point's been made. He finishes up by forking some extra bedding into the stall’s corner as she likes before leading her in for the night. 

If he’d hoped to hear the rise and fall of a familiar voice on his way back to the tavern he’s sorely disappointed. Most of the tables are crowded, some obviously friendly and welcoming, but Jaskier sits alone, elbow on the table with chin in hand and his lute still in the case between his knees. 

Geralt takes a deep, bracing breath and crosses to the bar. The cost of a room is enough to make him wince. He pays for one night only and two pitchers of ale. Empty tankards tucked under one arm he brings both to the table at once and sets them down with loud, deliberate thuds. When he pours Jaskier reaches immediately for the first full tankard and sets about to drinking with a purpose better suited to someone else. 

For weeks Geralt sought an end--any end at all--to the constant chatter. With the gates of Beauclair in sight he dreamed of an evening spent drinking in blessed quiet while Jaskier threw heart and body into song. He almost craved the soft bed and softer sounds of pleasure that would be sure to follow as Jaskier came down from such a performance, the long hours of warmth and closeness it would take for Jaskier to finally settle enough to sleep.

At the end of the second pitcher Jaskier’s lute is still in its case and every attempt by patrons and serving ladies alike to coax forth a song have failed. 

“Come on,” Geralt says, picking up Jaskier’s hand to press a key into his palm. “For the room.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier downs the last of his drink. “Yeah, okay.”

Geralt gathers up the dishes and stops briefly to pay for a third pitcher as Jaskier heads for the stairs, turning the key over in his fingers and squinting down at it. An odd lump forms in Geralt's throat at his slow, heavy-footed climb. 

Inside the room is dark, too early for the streets to be lit and the sole window facing away from the sunset. For the first time since discovering Geralt's enhanced vision meant full control over the size of his pupils Jaskier doesn't want to watch in fascination. Neither is he interested in yet again hearing how and why Geralt can direct a sign to light the single candle wedged into an artful spill of wax instead of setting the entire room ablaze like a pack of ghouls. 

“Alright,” Geralt says after stowing their gear and pouring another ale. He takes a long pull before sitting on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

Caring about something at last, Jaskier casts about scowling. “You forgot mine. Where's my mug?"

“Jaskier.”

“Rude,” Jaskier mutters and heads for the door. Less than a foot away from it he gasps, stumbling suddenly back. It takes longer than usual for him to work out the obvious, and when he does he whirls around wide-eyed with his hand clutched protectively to his chest. "Did you trap the fucking door?”

Geralt calmly takes another drink.

“Son of a--” Stupidly, Jaskier kicks at the faint purple glow he didn't notice before. This time it flashes brightly and knocks him flat on his ass. “Fuck! Geralt!”

“Tell me what's made you so miserable. Your company is tiresome tonight.”

“Tiresome? _Tiresome?_ I was laughed at, you inconsiderate boor!" Relief isn't something Geralt ever expected to feel at Jaskier's indignant sputtering, yet there it is as warm as the ale in his belly. "Worse, I was _ignored_. Ignored! By these bourgeois parochial idiots! Provincial philistines, every last one of them, stinking of sour wine and the foul clinging funk of their own asses, they wouldn't know--”

When Jaskier starts repeating insults, which takes an impressive while, Geralt stops listening. He makes his way steadily through the pitcher and thinks about likely places to find work in a city as idyllic as this. 

“As I said, they’ll regret it.” Jaskier finally finishes with a disdainful sniff. “Their ignorance has denied the whole of Beauclair.”

“That’s why you didn’t play below.”

Jaskier pulls the mug from Geralt’s grip and raises it in a salute, frowning only slightly when he finds it empty. 

“Petty.”

“Petty is as petty does.”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Jaskier proffers the mug. Geralt looks at it. Jaskier gives it a waggle at the pitcher, mouth dropping open as Geralt's brow lifts. 

“You’re not serious.”

“I have business,” says Geralt, and drinks the last dregs straight from the pitcher. “I’ll send up a bath. Stay here. Use it.”

Narrow-eyed, Jaskier snaps his mouth shut. Thoughts visibly trudge their way through his ale-muddled head. It takes at least forty seconds for him to come around to his usual lecherous conclusions. 

“Send up more beer, too!” he calls, muffled through the door. 

Downstairs Geralt hands over yet more coins along with the empty pitcher. He buys one last mug and takes it out onto the flowery terrace, settling into a covered corner with a full view of the front door. Telling Jaskier to do anything is a fifty-fifty chance at the best of times. Hedging his bets with fancy soap costing almost as much as the bloody room he hopes not only will Jaskier make use of the bath, he'll linger long enough for both the water and his temper to cool. 

In a week, two at the most, all this fuss won’t rate even a footnote in Jaskier’s grand stories. 

The city changes tenor gradually as evening slips into night, though it’s still busy and overloud to his ears. The air grows heavy with daytime indulgences turned to a more decadent slant; perfumes wound through with thicker scent of bodies crowding together, their impatience and their need, rise on the warmth radiating from sun-heated cobblestones 

Geralt drinks his ale slowly, holds it in his mouth to help drown the smells. Excitement not his own prickles at his skin. Too soon it drives him back inside, and there it only worsens. Eventually he gives up and retreats to the sanctuary of Jaskier’s company with a snort at the thought that all his noisy fidgeting, the smell of him and the spill of his emotions that humans are incapable of keeping to themselves is comfortable, feel safe in their familiarity. 

There aren’t many things that Geralt is used to in such a way. To most he's just grown numb.

The room smells mostly of the crackling fire and clean skin, only a little of dirty clothes and surprisingly not at all of cloyingly fake flowers. If expensive soap comes with less of a stink as a rule he might be more inclined to spend money on it again--there's nothing wrong with a simple lye soap decently made, but even without cheap oils he can usually smell more of it than of Jaskier right after a bath. 

Wet hair shows above the edge of a massive wooden tub, one more suited to sitting permanently in a room instead of lugged from there to here and back again. If he'd shelled out more for the room perhaps it would be. 

He'll have to be careful how he spends his money from here on. He'd only meant to ease Jaskier's bruised feelings sooner rather than later for both their sakes, not spoil him with luxuries. 

“That must be you, Geralt,” Jaskier says lazily, all traces of his earlier upset long gone. “I didn’t hear a thing but I know when I’m being watched. It’s either you or a ghost.” A short pause. “You'd best be a friendly ghost. I know a witcher.”

“It’s me.”

“Just in time!” Water sloshes as Jaskier stands and stretches languorously. He holds out an imperious hand for a towel, unsubtly posing just so in the firelight. “This was a lovely idea. Do wash up, hm? I’ll be over there on that very large bed waiting for you.”

Glad enough to take that over dealing with a disgruntled bard all night, Geralt tosses over a towel from several stacked prettily on a shelf. He hadn't noticed earlier that the whole room is deliberate and artful that way, a perfect fit to how Jaskier steps out of the tub, dries off with long, slow passes more like a caress. With a knowing smile he watches Geralt from beneath dark lashes as he strolls to the bed. 

Geralt shakes his head. If Jaskier wants to take up his accidental seduction, never mind that neither of them needs it, fair enough. The water is nowhere near as hot as he’d like though warmer than he’d thought. He doesn’t bother to heat it, instead taking up soap and sponge.

“Wash your hair, darling.”

Geralt twists to give Jaskier a flat look. Lounging naked on the bed, one hand tucked under his head, Jaskier smiles wider. Geralt’s gaze tracks the long, lean length of him stretched out from head to toe. The blankets are tucked neatly at the foot of the bed and Jaskier’s towel is slung over the headboard. Another fresh one sits conspicuously on the nightstand. 

Geralt washes his damn hair. 

When he climbs out after only a few minutes, Jaskier makes no smart remark about his eagerness to get on with it. Also missing is the usual commentary on his body--Jaskier likes to say silly things about the shapeliness of his legs or how well-formed his bottom is, always so polite as if Geralt is a blushing maiden. 

Until it isn’t polite at all, and far more likely to make Geralt blush if such a thing weren’t decades behind him. 

The weighted silence continues as he pads bare-footed to the towels, dries off for the sake of the sheets they have to sleep on later. Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up steadily. He’s fully hard when Geralt sets a knee to the bed, a flush already on his cheeks and spreading down his chest. 

He reaches out to urge Geralt over him, the Chaos leashed to flesh and bone seeming to reach out in return long before they touch. It rumbles through Geralt like the purr of some great beast as he settles his weight carefully, then curls as gently into his veins as the press of Jaskier's warm, softly-parted lips. The delicate brush of Jaskier's tongue turns the heat in his belly to smouldering embers so much more dangerous than an open flame. It's too easy to forget a glowing coal will burn just the same. 

“What’s this?” Geralt asks as Jaskier tucks the damp tangle of his hair behind an ear. Wet fingertips trace along the edge of stubble on his cheek. 

“Setting the tone." Jaskier continues stroking along the curve of his jaw, up to his temple and over the ridge of his brow. “I get so carried away I forget how much I love kissing.”

Geralt hums. In his experience it isn’t the sort of intimacy many spend a lot of time on, not when there are more immediate pleasures to be found, but then his time is dictated by the lightness of his purse so his experience probably doesn't count for much. Either way he has the soft bed and long night he'd wanted. They can spend half of it sharing lazy kisses if Jaskier wants. 

Now that he knows what's wanted of him he takes the lead, willing to indulge just a little more for tonight. He holds Jaskier's face in one hand and tilts it as he pleases to rub his cheek gently against soft lips, follow with the brief slip of his tongue, catch and bite and soothe. Soon Jaskier's lips are flushed blood-hot and plush. They look painted when he draws back and lays the pad of his thumb against them. 

Jaskier swallows and says, “Don’t stop.”

Ignoring the firm press of Jaskier’s cock into the crook of his thigh is almost as difficult as ignoring his own. Jaskier hadn’t said anything about _just_ kissing but now it feels like a challenge to do only that and nothing more until he begs. He might last until Geralt’s lips are as red and sore as his, though the noise he makes when Geralt runs a hand down his side, strokes the soft curve of his ass makes it doubtful. 

His fingers tangle in Geralt’s hair as he spreads his legs and bends his knee, opens himself to the most intimate way a man can be touched. 

“There’s oil.” Jaskier’s voice is rough, shaky; he smells of nervous arousal and longing. “I want you to--“

Geralt kisses those words away before they can lodge in him like barbs. He lets his hand slip between Jaskier’s legs, lets Jaskier’s ragged moan wash over him when his fingers press lightly against tight, hidden heat. The thought alone is enough to make his cock ache. The way Jaskier’s hole clenches fitfully threatens to steal all reason. 

“Yes,” Jaskier groans, his eyes sliding shut as his head falls back. “Please touch me like that, Geralt. Just… slowly.”

Geralt rests his forehead on Jaskier’s collarbone. He already knows the answer to the question heavy on his tongue. If he were a better man he’d offer to show Jaskier what it’s like from the other side first, let him see how easy the pleasure in it can be. If he were any sort of man at all, he’d insist. 

Instead he sits back, says, “Roll onto your belly for me,” and bites at the inside of his lip as Jaskier’s flush deepens and he does. 

He should say something reassuring as he kneels between Jaskier’s thighs. He should warn with more than his hands spreading over Jaskier’s ass. He should definitely tell Jaskier what he intends to do before he bares Jaskier to his gaze.

Jaskier buries his face in the crook of his arm and curses softly, a fine trembling taken him over. He’s exposed and vulnerable, and even so many decades later the dizzying, terrifying thrill of being held open like this is sharp in Geralt's memory. The pleasure Jaskier’s used to is easy to give, easier still to take. He should be warned this is nothing like it, that this receptive sort of pleasure is a confusing tangle of both and so much more besides. 

But that’s not how Geralt learned it, and anything he says are only words. He’d rather do it and let Jaskier figure out what to say about it anyway.

Whatever Jaskier expects, he jolts when Geralt licks his asshole. Laid out on his stomach there’s not much for him to do except take it and talk. Talk, his favourite thing to do, but now of all times he doesn’t utter a word, not when deliberately given the chance or even when Geralt kisses him intimately as softly and slowly as he'd kissed Jaskier's mouth. The circling tip of his tongue makes Jaskier’s moans catch, the wide flat of it dragged from balls to tailbone make those same moans punch free. 

Every sound from Jaskier is beautifully filthy, especially the ones stopped deep in his chest where he thinks Geralt won’t hear them. They cut off entirely at the careful push of Geralt’s tongue inside him and he freezes, shocked.

Maybe Geralt should pull back, let him get used to the idea first. Like everything else Geralt should do, he doesn’t. He licks into Jaskier’s body and relishes the feel of tightly ridged muscle softening against his lips. Jaskier abruptly starts breathing again only to lose all his air again in a loud, disbelieving groan.

Like a popped cork the words start tumbling from Jaskier, sentence fragments and scattered nonsense. He says, “I didn’t think,” stumbles over, “That’s your _tongue_ , Geralt, I meant-- I meant for you, your cock,” and chokes on his own ragged breaths.

“I’m going to put my cock in you,” Geralt says, as helpless as Jaskier to stop a shudder of anticipation and muffling a moan in the meat of his ass. “I’ll fuck you, but this first.”

Jaskier babbles his consent and hikes his hips up. Unable in his eagerness to coordinate the leverage to push back against Geralt's mouth he grabs shamelessly at his own ass, holds himself open for the lazy tongue-fucking Geralt's determined to give. He trembles whenever Geralt pushes harder, deeper, the smell of his sweat growing thicker, muskier in the heat between his legs. His white-knuckled grip slips, his ass slick with sweat and spit, his balls glistening in the flickering light. 

He lifts his head, blinking blearily when Geralt shifts to lie down on his side next to him. The questions forming on bitten-red lips die as he catches sight of the oil bottle in Geralt’s hand. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow again, hitching a knee up even higher on the mattress. 

A muffled _please_ forces Geralt to pause, struggle to regain control. His jaw aches, his tongue is sore, and he's so hard every breath hurts. He's never wanted anything as badly as he wants to bury himself in the heat of Jaskier's body right now.

Carefully, Geralt maps out what he needs to do and follows methodically through one after the other to distract from deep-seated animal want. He gathers Jaskier close to comfort, tucks the towel from the headboard beneath Jaskier's hips to protect the bedding. When Jaskier gasps and jerks from the drag of it against his cock Geralt takes his hand, squeezes briefly before urging him to help spread the towel flat. 

Opening the bottle draws another eager, unsteady noise from Jaskier. He jerks again at the oil dripped directly into the crack of his ass and scrubs his face fitfully against the blankets. Geralt's gut clenches, churns with heady anticipation--if this is how Jaskier reacts to a bit of necessary preparation he's not so sure either of them will see morning unscathed.

“Have you used your fingers like this?” Geralt sets the bottle aside, runs his fingers through the thick oil to rub it around and just barely into Jaskier's soft hole. “Put them inside yourself.”

Jaskier lets out a strangled noise. His hair is damp at the roots, the back of his neck flushed bright red and half his face hidden in the pillows. Still he grins cheekily and says only a little breathlessly, “D’you want me to talk dirty for you?”

“You can do whatever you like,” Geralt tells him. “I intend to.”

Feeling Jaskier's asshole give way under the slightest bit of pressure, the sudden heat of his clutching insides, is a blissful kind of torture. It's easy enough to open him that either he has played like this before or, given the ache lingering in Geralt's jaw, they spent longer with his tongue buried in Jaskier's ass than he thought. 

It doesn't really matter. The only thing Geralt's concerned with now is giving Jaskier such incredible pleasure that he's as anxious and eager for the next time as he is for this first one. Geralt has plans to watch when he fingers Jaskier again, plans to eat him out until he's sloppily wet like he's already been fucked. More plans to lie back and let Jaskier ride him, to watch Jaskier's face twist with pleasure and the chaos rising up to consume them. 

Geralt closes his eyes and catches his breath. There'll be time for all of that and more. For now, sliding a finger into Jaskier’s body all the way to the first knuckle, pressing gently against flesh he’s almost certain no one else has touched, is more than enough. As new as it might be for Jaskier, it’s new to him too--he’s never had the privilege of being first for anyone in the ways he has for Jaskier. He'd never really cared, never thought he would. And still he probably wouldn't except for now it's been given to him, become one of the very few things he hadn't wanted and hadn't asked for that he's glad to take. 

“Show me your face,” Geralt says, slipping into an easy rhythm, getting Jaskier used to the pressure and the movement--no matter how keen he is he'll need a lot more before he's ready to be split wide and fucked. "I want to see you.”

Jaskier huffs but turns his head, rests it on his arm. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth slack, lips and lashes both a little wet. The flush creeping up the back of his neck reaches his ears, splashes bright spots of colour onto his cheeks. Already he looks wrecked and the vicious need to see him honestly and truly fucked senseless cuts deep. 

Pulling Jaskier into rough kisses is a temporary balm. He bites his need into Jaskier's flesh, shoves his tongue into Jaskier's mouth so the push of more fingers into his ass stays careful and kind. Everything between them, the heat and the desire and the magic in reality barely manifested but scraping his skin raw, is almost unbearable and still building. He can't believe it when Jaskier has the presence of mind to speak. 

“Please, now,” is what he says, clutching at the sheets, at Geralt. "I want it, you know I do. You know the things I've heard." His eyes squeeze shut at the twist of Geralt's fingers, his body going tight, tighter. When he opens his eyes again they're fever-bright, devilish. "I mean to know what it's like to be on your cock, not your fingers. I can do that myself.”

Geralt rasps guttural curses. He grabs the oil with his free hand, less careful than he should be reclaiming the other to spread it over his cock. "Wicked, irksome bard," he complains, hoping the colourful word choice will distract from the shaking of his voice and his hands. "On your side, your back to me. If you’re going to rush me where I’d rather linger, you’ll deal with the consequences.”

Less a threat, more a promise, Jaskier's pulse spikes. A flash of trepidation shows through his impish smile before he does as he's told and settles with his ass tucked against Geralt’s groin but still too much distance between them for Geralt's liking. Sliding an arm under him rather than asking him to move again, Geralt curls it across his chest to hold him close. Geralt noses at the hot nape of his neck and puts a hand on his thigh to guide where he should put his legs. 

“Like this I won’t go too deep,” Geralt says, brushing a kiss to the slant of Jaskier’s jaw. “Not until you want it.” His heart fights to race after Jaskier’s, their mismatched pulses beating like drums in his head. Hard training is the only thing that keeps it from crashing into his ribs when he slips his cock into the cleft of Jaskier’s ass. Muscle clenches nervously tight against his leaking cockhead even while Jaskier murmurs that he’s ready.

Geralt doesn’t say that Jaskier has no idea if he’s ready or not; he thinks he is and that’s the best either of them can do. Jaskier gasps first at the pressure, then at his own resistance. He whines in frustration and starts breathing long and slow in a clear attempt to overcome it. Geralt grits his teeth and holds steady as Jaskier’s hole twitches around the very tip of him. He splays his hand flat over Jaskier’s chest and waits, soothes as much as he can with his patience flayed thin. The moment muscle relaxes he can’t stop the automatic flex of his hips or the blissful groan at breaching Jaskier’s body. 

“Oh god,” Jaskier moans, “oh god, _fuck_ , that’s--” clawing at the bed trying to find something to hold onto. 

With the crown wedged past that first tight ring he can finally let go of his own cock and reach for Jaskier’s, jerk him hard again and stroke him through taking the rest until Geralt can fuck real pleasure into him. 

But Jaskier is just as thick and hot as ever, cock standing proud against his belly soaked to the root. He grunts in surprise. He’d have noticed if Jaskier already came, and he couldn’t be this hard again so soon if he did. 

“That’s _amazing_ , Geralt, dear sweet gods put it in me, please, all of it, all the way,” Jaskier gasps, throwing his head back when he finally figures out he can hold onto Geralt as hard as he needs to, “you feel incredible, I should’ve-- Should’ve--” His voice abruptly cuts to nothing. He sucks in a breath and holds it as whatever tenuous grasp on control Geralt has left snaps.

Jaskier is _wet_ for him. Hard, wet, and begging already after barely had a taste of what this can be. 

Even with that, the oil, and Geralt's game attempt at readying him, it isn't easy to give him what he wants. It's slow but rougher than Geralt planned--he has to work for every grudging inch, gritting his teeth and groaning in pleasure treading close to pain--and still Jaskier squirms into it, not away. If Geralt weren't holding him back, if he were in a position with a sliver of leverage to manage it, he'd have fucked himself full of Geralt's cock already. 

Between the two of them, Jaskier isn’t the one he thought he’d be struggling to keep in check. 

Holding tightly to Jaskier’s hip--there’ll be bruises in a few short hours, maybe even in the shape of his hand--he bottoms out. He mouths at the side of Jaskier’s face until he twists to offer his mouth. And offer it is all he does, trembling and receptive in Geralt’s arms, his body quivering where Geralt is seated deep inside him.

Jaskier's still so very tight as he draws back, pushes in achingly slowly. Each time he tries to fuck into him a little harder, a bit faster, he can't. It feels exactly like forcing his way inside for the first time over and over again until he has to stop. He doesn’t trust Jaskier’s greedy pleas for more or what he thinks is the overwhelming smell of Jaskier’s pleasure; he’s afraid he's so far gone that he can’t trust his own senses.

“Should’ve what?” he asks, curling his hand around Jaskier’s cock. It kicks in his grip, thick with blood and throbbing with Jaskier's pulse. “What should’ve you done, Jaskier?”

“Should’ve known you’d be a _dick_ ,” Jaskier grits out, reaching up over his shoulder to snatch up a fistful of Geralt’s hair and yank. “Don’t you fucking dare stop now.”

A bark of laughter escapes before Geralt realises it's even there. Jaskier’s arm is shaking as badly as the rest of him but he’s so indignant, so _Jaskier_ that the nagging doubts are drowned out by his cursing. 

It's only fractionally easier this time to push into him, the pull and drag on Geralt's cock almost like he's deliberately clamping down to frustrate and torment. By the time Geralt manages to work up to any sort of real thrusting he's as slick with sweat as Jaskier is, and even then trying to fuck him properly is harder than it should be. It doesn't help that he won't--can't--stop squirming no matter how firm Geralt's hold, not even under false threat that he'll get nothing at all if he doesn't quit it. 

Long after Jaskier should've gone loose and easy his body is still unbelievably tight and grasping. Desperate fingers scrabble at Geralt's hip. In barely more than a croak Jaskier demands more. For the first time in longer than Geralt can remember he's forced to focus on resisting his own release to give his partner what they want. Pressed tight against Jaskier's ass, his balls are heavy and tender. 

Suddenly Jaskier catches his breath and starts running off at the mouth; all Geralt can do is keep fucking him and listen. He tells Geralt how earth-shatteringly wonderous it feels, that _Geralt_ is, how it’s so much better than he imagined, so much worse than nobles' whispered gossip. He says _this_ is what’s meant by a son ruined for marriage, that after just one night with another man's cock in his ass, of being filled up and taken over so deeply and thoroughly, how could he ever go the rest of his life without it again no matter how beautiful his wife and how sweet her cunt. 

Geralt doesn't have anything to spare on a curse when he comes. Like a physical blow it knocks the wind out of him, sweeping the world out from under him with nothing left behind but the pleasure of his balls wrung dry. For a short, blissfully terrible moment he loses touch with everything that doesn't anchor him to Jaskier. He can't even feel the beat of his own heart any longer. 

Then it all floods back brighter and louder than before. 

“Geralt, fuck,” Jaskier is saying, hoarse and struggling to breathe, “Geralt, kiss me right now, please, please, you beautiful fuck. My darling, my-- fuck, Geralt, _Geralt_.”

Geralt groans and kisses him, groping blindly for his cock with a hand that feels strangely numb. His knuckles drag through some of the mess on Jaskier’s belly, then brush his cock. Only after he gives it a little tug does he notice it's even wetter now, firm but a little soft. Jaskier gives a weak yelp. 

“What the fuck,” Geralt mumbles, shoving up onto his elbow. His vision swims for just a second or two before he blinks it back into focus to stare at Jaskier’s spent cock in his grip. Struck dumb, he says, “You came."

“And how,” Jaskier croaks with a lopsided grin. He wobbly pats at Geralt’s flank. “Nicely done. I hear not everyone does.”

 _Most don’t,_ Geralt doesn’t say. Not from just a cock in their ass. That Jaskier did and seems quite content with it isn’t something he wants to get caught up discussing when he can barely think. Instead he puts a hand to Jaskier’s side in warning and gingerly pulls out. Wincing, he cleans up with the towel from the nightstand. Jaskier might've chafed his goddamn cock.

Oblivious to his own impossibly tight ass, Jaskier wiggles and makes a curious noise. “That feels…” He prods shamelessly at his hole, breath hissing through his teeth. Whatever it feels like, it sounds filthy and wet. He lifts his hand and looks at his glistening fingers. “Oh. Oh my.”

Geralt offers the towel with a grunt.

“Yes… yes, I suppose. Thank you.” Jaskier wipes up his hand and his stomach, then makes a face. “Could you--?”

Barely awake Geralt takes the towel back and drags it over the mess between Jaskier's still-trembling legs, folds it over and does the same for his ass. Dropping it off the edge of the bed with eyes closed, Geralt lifts an arm as an invitation. 

Jaskier hums another thanks. He scoots gingerly back into the curve of Geralt’s body. “Grab a blanket, hm?”

With an irritated grunt Geralt snags one of the lighter sheets to tug up over them. When cooling sweat has dried Jaskier will just kick it off again, complaining about the heat. But it's enough to finally have him settle down. Every now and then he shivers with remembered pleasure in Geralt's arms. 

Sleep edges in like a heavy sort of tingling. It takes a few minutes for Geralt to realize it's trapped chaos thrumming through them. 

"That _was_ good, wasn’t it?” Jaskier asks, painfully casual. 

A few minutes more to realize it's been there all this time like background noise, he just stopped noticing it.

“I certainly don’t see anything to complain about.” 

_When_ did he stop noticing it? He's always been very aware of it between them before. 

“Do you?”

"Hm."

"I'll take that as a no." 

A long, glorious silence follows. Whatever it means for the chaos to sit banked at the edges of his consciousness while skin to skin with Jaskier can wait. Sleep, true deep sleep, pulls at him sweetly. 

“Oh but I am feeling it," Jaskier mumbles. "I’m going to be very, very sore in the morning, aren’t I? It's probably too late for a fresh bath, d'you think?"

"Go to sleep."

“...ah, no. No, I don’t think I will, actually. I feel very...hm.” Under the sheet he laces their fingers together. “Energized, I guess. I could go again. Not _again_ again. But, you know. Again.”

"No."

"Not right away!" Jaskier twitters, clearly having meant yes, right away. "In a… half hour or so?"

"Jaskier."

"Darling?"

"Shut t'fuck up."

Jaskier huffs. "I've never met a man so grumpy from getting off."

With a mighty heave Geralt leans up on an elbow and stares, scrunch-eyed, down at Jaskier. “Never met a man who got off with you before."

Jaskier giggles and snorts, then gives in to laughter. Satisfied, Geralt settles back down with a smile. That'll distract Jaskier long enough for him to fall asleep, and once he does Jaskier won't wake him for anything short of a nekker hoard in the streets. 

Why Jaskier is so energetic while he's so exhausted most likely has something to do with how the magic is behaving, and it too can wait. What he does know for certain is that whoever those long-dead sorcerers responsible for refining witcher mutations were, they hadn't thought to factor the indefatigable sex drive of a travelling bard into their calculations.

*

End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so very much for your lovely and kind comments on part one! I want to reply to each of them because they're so thoughtful but for real editing this part took way, _way_ more time and effort than anticipated. Seriously. I figured a couple hours of work after Kate's beta and it'd be good to go. 
> 
> HA. HA!
> 
> I am a fool. 
> 
> ...part three is also 14k. I might actually perish trying to edit it. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@bluesoaring](https://twitter.com/bluesoaring) and tumblr [bluesoaring](https://bluesoaring.tumblr.com/)!


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